


Grifter's Bone

by assholeachilleus



Series: Deaf!jon au [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Archivist Sasha James, Deaf!Jon, Jon never worked at the magnus institute, M/M, Martin takes Jon's statement and is a pining mess, but it's fine bc so is Jon, the violence isn't really graphic but just to be safe, they just like stare at each other n pine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:07:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28245915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/assholeachilleus/pseuds/assholeachilleus
Summary: Statement of Jonathan Sims, regarding a concert he attended that led to the subsequent murder of his friends and how he barely escaped with his life. Taken by Martin Blackwood, archival assistant at the Magnus Institute, in lieu of Sasha James, head archivist. Statement begins.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: Deaf!jon au [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2072478
Comments: 20
Kudos: 200





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Two fics in one week??? what is going on with me. I love the idea of Jon coming to give a statement and just shamelessly (and awkwardly) flirting with Martin, who's a blushing mess. I'm very tempted to write a second chapter where Martin calls and they go on a date, badly disguised as "follow up" n Sasha and Tim tease him relentlessly. But we'll see. If you enjoy please consider leaving kudos or a comment. Hope you enjoy!

"Statement of Jonathan Sims-" 

"Jon." Jon flashed a slightly melancholic smile, shyly tucking a loose strand of greying hair back behind his ear. Martin felt his cheeks prickling. 

He cleared his throat, which suddenly felt tight, and prayed his voice would be strong. "Right, um, of course. Jon." Martin sat up straighter. "Statement of Jon Sims, regarding,” He glanced down at the cramped scrawl. “Regarding a concert. Recorded by archival assistant Martin Blackwood, in lieu of head archivist Sasha James." Martin gave what he hoped was an encouraging nod, his cheeks prickling with heat at the intensity in Jon's eyes. "Statement begins." 

Jon nodded, mostly to himself. He straightened his glasses, pushed back hair that was steadily falling from where he'd haphazardly tied it with a pen, his narrow shoulders almost falling in on themselves. Martin noticed the dark purple rings backwashed by his darker skin. The smears of ink, splashed black, running along Jon's fingers and smudged across his wrists. All of Martin's somewhat unprofessional thoughts vanished as Jon began to speak. His voice was low, like car tyres over a gravel drive. But also there was a wistfulness to it. A thin sliver of hope that circled and curled like smoke rising from a fire. 

"I've always liked music. More so than most I suppose. It started as an escape for me really. I lost my parents when I was young, too young for that kind of dark tragedy to crawl into my life, leaving it a desolate wasteland of childlike terror over the finality of death. Far too young to have thoughts about supposed afterlife or heaven or any other notions creep in like an unwanted intruder in the night. But life is anything but fair I guess. 

After my parents died I moved in with my grandmother. It was tough at first, I was a somewhat unruly child, seeking the thrill of adventure but only if it fitted my very structured want. I had an obsession with knowledge. Not in the way that most people do, but as though it satisfied some primal hunger I never knew I possessed. As though some macabre God resided inside me, crawling up my throat, and demanding sacrifices. My grandmother did the best she could, you understand. But I was never satisfied. No amount of books were enough. The hunger needed to be fed. And, as money was an entirely finite resource, I'm sure you're starting to see the issue. 

It wasn't that my grandmother didn't love me, far from it. But she had lived well past the age where rearing children was an exciting and inspirational pursuit, grasping at opportunities to imprint knowledge and experience onto inquisitive and naïve young minds. Instead, I think she was just desperate for a break. 

So, once a week she would take me to our local library, a beautiful old brick building with high Georgian windows and smooth polished floors. And it was there I discovered a book on playing the guitar. 

It's funny looking back. Wondering how my life would be different if I had chosen another book. Ignored the call of the muted green cover and ink-stained pages. But I didn't ignore it; I grasped it with all my might, hungry eyes devouring the page, heart slamming against my chest until I had read it all. The monster needed to be fed. 

The next day I begged my grandmother to buy me a guitar. She wasn't an unkind woman, but her steely gaze and creased brow gave me all the answers I needed.

I preoccupied my time with learning everything I could about music. Sitting eight years old, hunched over a book on the inner-workings of composers such as Mozart, it was no wonder I didn't exactly fit in with my peers. 

Until the fateful day came. I was a teenager at the time, young, barely a wisp of facial hair, and a voice many octaves too high for my height. I'd gotten a Saturday job at my library, the very same that had inspired my musical obsession and kept it fed. I used the small amount of money to buy an old guitar. It was battered really, more than a few strings missing, chunks indented in the worn wood. But it was mine. Finally mine. And I loved it. 

Since that moment I'd always played. Not just guitar, piano, drums, even had a fateful attempt at violin. But nothing felt as peaceful as my fingers on the strings. 

I was even in a band in University. We weren't any good and we held no disillusions that we would ever go beyond disused classrooms and open mic nights. But it felt so right. And I always knew, standing on the stage, fingers on the strings, that it was where I was meant to be. 

That's what led me to attend the gig. I knew it was a bad idea, it sounded like the kind of concert that ended in beer soaked clothes and more than a few bruises to show for it. But my friends had begged me. Scarlett in particular, she has this uncanny knack of getting people to do things. Had. I suppose. 

So I went. A band called Grifter's Bone, whatever that meant. I had asked Scarlett, but she'd shaken her head with a fond smile and said not everything had to have a meaning. I still remember the heavy, damp air as we descended the basement steps. The cold brick echoing every sound that dared brush against it. 

It started okay at first. There were a few more leather jackets and combat boots asking for trouble than I felt strictly comfortable with, but Scarlett had wanted it so. And then the music began, the figures onstage rising out of a cloying haze that seemed to hang in the air. 

I felt the music thrumming through my veins. The thumping of the music underfoot. The blood pounding in my ears and around my head and down into my hands that twitched with barely constrained violence. And I knew something was wrong. 

All around me people were attacking each other. You must understand I've been in mosh pits before, I've seen drunken punch ups, and violence flaring impossibly bright, burning itself out as the people realise it was all a misunderstanding of accidental pushing. But this was not that. 

I watched the people around me grasping for weapons, their eyes wild and intense with violence. Sprays of crimson started everywhere, the horrific sounds of breaking bone, the wet slapping of tearing flesh. I watched Scarlett come at me, her hair matted with red and splatted with chunks of pink and white. A wild animal. 

I felt the violence clawing at me, begging me to let into the primal rage building in my chest. I watched, an observer in my own body as my arms reached out for my best friend, arms extended as though wanting a hug. I knew that wasn't the case though. Knew those arms that had embraced her so many times would sneak like a noose around her throat and squeeze until there was no light left. 

I did the only thing I could think then. I took my hearing aids out. I suppose I should've mentioned earlier, my hearing was severely impaired as a child and it worsened with age. As though some unseen force was reaching in with malicious, grasping hands, snatching it away bit by bit. 

But now it was almost worse. I was watching, my legs frozen to the spot, the dreadful ending violence playing out in horrific mute. The flesh no longer tore wetly. The weapons didn't connect with a dark crunch. The choking screams that yelled of anguish and terror and a little bit of heinous enjoyment were silenced. But it was still happening. I knew. 

I'm not proud of what I did next. I, I ran. Simple as. I abandoned my friends who I'd known since University. Who I'd shared a mutual love of music with. Who I'd crammed with for exams, shaking with caffeine ingestion, and shoulders brushing as we hunched over a shared textbook. I didn't stop running. I couldn't stop. I got all the way to Elephant and Castle before my legs gave out. One minute I was alive with adrenaline, my body thrumming and humming, my heart pounding in my ears, like a symphony. And then I hit the hard pavement with a thud. Barely registering my knees crack and my arms scrape sharply. 

I pressed my cheek to the unwelcoming cold ground, and just breathed. Passers by probably thought I was mad. But I needed to feel the creeping coolness. To remind myself I was alive. 

I went to the police, of course I did. But for them it was open and shut. A random act of heinous violence, bursting into life like the first embers of a fire and wilting out just as fast. 

I didn't know what to do really. Where to go. So I came here. 

It took me weeks before I could stand to put my hearing aids back in. And even as I did, I noticed a small crimson smear, and bile rose in my throat." 

Jon took a shuddering breath, his fragile frame looking minutes from totally collapsing. Martin had the oddest compulsion to reach out, to wrap his arms around Jon’s shaking frame, and whisper reassurances into his hair. Martin’s whole face felt warm. 

“Thank you.” Martin made his voice as soft as possible, terrified that Jon would spook like a wild animal. He cleared his throat. “That was very helpful. We can, um, we’ll look into it. And, er, we’ll get back to you if we find anything.” The papers in his hands flapped noisily as he shuffled them. “You, er, you provided contact details on the form, right?” 

Jon nodded, his misty eyes clearing like the sun breaking through on a cloudy day. “Yes, they’re, ah, my number is at the top.” Martin looked up as there was a tinge to Jon’s voice that he couldn’t identify. A small smile was tugging at Jon’s mouth. 

“Um, yes, I, er, I see.” Martin looked decidedly anywhere else except Jon. “Um, well, if that’s all…?” It wasn’t quite the professional dismissal he was hoping for, but Jon got the message. 

“Of course,” Jon stood up, although he still seemed so small in comparison, dwarfed by the mostly empty room. Martin stood up as well, hands wringing by his sides. Hoping to what? Shake Jon’s hand? God, the man had just spilled a traumatic event and all Martin could focus on was his delicate nose and pretty eyes. 

“Thank you, Martin.” 

“You’re, um, you’re very welcome.” Martin shuffled, hating how the noise broke the blanket of silence that had fallen. “Jon.” 

Jon nodded, that twinge of a smile still visible. With a sigh, he enclosed a hand over the door handle. Jon’s forehead was creased with thought, a confliction of indecision etched into his features. “I, ah, I really hope you’ll call. Martin.” 

Before Martin could recover, his brain had gone completely blank like pulling the plug on a tv, Jon had flashed another small smile and was gone. Martin stood there for ages. Face flushed. Willing his stubborn feet to move. 

Eventually he left, safely storing the tape and running into Sasha in the corridor, her frame dwarfed by a large mustard coat, her glasses perched precariously on the tip of her nose. 

“Martin! No need to panic, the people-eating desk in artifact storage was a complete false alarm.” She unwound her scarf as she spoke, shaking out her trapped curls. “Apparently Lin had gone on holiday to Cyprus and not told anyone.” Sasha started to walk and Martin followed suit. “How was the statement?” 

“Um, yeah, yeah, it was…” Martin trailed off, hands itching to scribble down poetic thoughts of green eyes and hair that curled delicately around small ears.   
Sasha laughed. “Earth to Martin?” She shrugged out of her coat, waving to Tim who was sat on his desk, legs crossed, frowning intensely at the statement in his hand. Sasha had lectured him too many times on proper workplace behaviour, she didn’t have the energy today. 

“Yeah, no, fine.” Martin smiled in a way he hoped was convincing and not manic. Sasha nodded, preoccupied with the mountain of papers that had wormed their way onto her desk. 

“Great.” She ruffled his curls playfully. “We’ll make a head archivist of you yet.” 

Once Martin had completed his daily duty of making tea, he sat at his desk, taking out the small leather-backed notebook in his desk draw. And if the poems were utterly filled with narrow shoulders, delicate features, and small soft smiles that hide a multitude of emotions. Well. That was no one’s business but his own.


	2. Coffee Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After giving his statement, Martin calls Jon asking to meet with a thinly veiled excuse of wanting to do "follow up" on his case. Soft flirting and awkward handholding ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally have no idea where I've got all this inspiration from lately. But I'm loving this au and I'm considering turning it into a mini series of snapshots between Jon and Martin bc I have this adorable idea of Martin learning sign language for Jon. I'm using this to work on my writing skills, so please feel free to leave constructive criticism, or just leave kudos or a comment yelling about what you liked. I appreciate that so much. Hope you enjoy!

Martin stared at the number he had typed into the phone. His heart palpitated and slammed painfully against his ribs. His breath fought against his closing throat, pushing up and out in a dizzying, painful rush that made him feel as though he might combust. His curls were slightly more exaggerated where they sat damp against his hairline. 

Martin took a deep breath. He could do this. He was a functioning adult. His fingers shook as he pressed ring, leaving a damp smear across his screen. 

His heart was timed with the dial tone of the phone, erratic and loud in a way that he would be concerned about if anxiety hadn't been the one constant in his life. 

Martin was just about to give up when the ringing abruptly stopped, replaced with a low, gravelly voice that sent goose bumps skittering across his skin. 

"Hello?" Martin tried desperately to calm the rabbiting of his heart, to cool his cheeks that had already tinged pink, and would soon be a deep red. 

"Hi, er, Jon. I'm not, um, sure if you remember but um, it's Martin. Martin Blackwood. I, um, I took your statement. From the Magnus archives." He breathed out, biting down on his lip to stop from rambling any further. His palms felt slick and Martin rubbed them against his trousers. 

Jon breathed what sounded like a laugh. And when he spoke Martin noted how his voice sounded less formal, a note of familiarity tinging it with warmth. 

"Yes, I remember." Martin resisted the urge to fidget, Tim was already giving him a weird look. "You said you were going to do some research and get back to me. Is this about the follow up?"

Martin bit down a smile. Jon remembered. Jon had actually listened to what he'd said. 

"Yes, um, I, we, did some follow up. And, er, I found some other cases that, um, confirm what you said." Martin felt the words bursting out of him, way too fast and teetering on incomprehensible. 

"Just in case I was lying." Jon's voice was laced with playfulness and Martin could picture his knowing smile. 

"No! I, er, I would never think that. Um, I believe you, um, obviously. But, er, well it's my job, and, um-" 

Jon's laugh was so light Martin thought he'd maybe imagined it. 

"Relax, Martin. I was just joking." 

Martin sighed, his cheeks flushed. "Right, um, yes, that's, that's good." Silence followed. "So, um, I thought maybe telling you over the phone would be a bit, well, er, impersonal?" 

Jon huffed a laugh. "I'm inclined to agree. Perhaps we could meet and discuss it?" 

Martin felt his throat close. His breath rattled uselessly in his chest. 

"Um," Eloquent start. "Sure, yes, um, I know this really good café. Near, um, near the institute. Um, bit pricey but then it is London." Martin laughed, short and sharp. "If, er, if you want to…?" 

He could hear Jon's smile. "Yes, that would be great. Text me the address and we can agree a time." 

Martin bit his lip. "Great! Okay, will do. I'll, um, get on that right now. Um, okay, so, so take care and, um, see you whenever we agree, I, er, I guess." 

"Great, I'll, ah, I'll look forward to it." Martin picked at his jumper sleeve. "Goodbye, Martin." 

"Bye, Jon." The empty silence that followed felt weighed down with everything Martin had wanted to say. He sat there, heart pounding painfully, breaths startlingly fast. A thought lodged stubbornly in his mind. 

Had he just accidentally asked Jon out? 

No. No, Martin was too idealistic for his own good. It was just routine follow up. With a man he had written poetry about. Totally normal. Martin groaned, putting his head in his hands. 

Tim's voice sliced through the settled silence. 

"Hey boss," He called, smile all childlike and feigned innocence. Sasha, who'd been walking past, stopped and waited expectantly. "Just wondering, for no reason other than idle curiosity, what's company policy on say, asking out statement givers?" 

Martin made a humiliating noise, worryingly close to a squeak. 

Sasha gave Tim a confused smile. "Well, as long as they've given the statement and there's no conflict of interest, I don't really see the issue?" 

"Interesting." Tim feigned actual interest, exaggeratedly stroking his non existent facial hair and looking pensive. 

"Tim, please don't go around breaking the statement giver's hearts." Sasha chided, looking down at him playfully over her glasses. "It's bad for company morale." 

"Boss!" Tim said affronted. "I would never." Sasha snorted, shuffling the papers she was carrying into a more comfortable position. "But Martin on the other hand…" 

The words hung in the air, like rain mid fall. Sasha turned, her eyebrows raised high above her glasses. But Martin had known her long enough to see the playful smile twitching. 

Martin groaned. "No, no, it's not, it's not like that, okay? It's just, it's just follow up after a statement. I just, I just didn't want to say it over the phone, okay? So we agreed an external location. For work related purposes." His cheeks prickled. 

"Is that what we're calling it nowadays?" Tim teased, eyes lighting up as Sasha laughed, shaking her head at his antics. 

"Tim!" Martin felt embarrassment squirm warm in his stomach. "It's so not like that!" 

"Tim." Sasha's voice was mock scolding. "Leave Martin alone." 

"Thank you." Martin sulked, curling his large frame inwards in the hope that the ground would swallow him whole. 

"Let Martin date whoever he wants." Tim's answering cackle rang out against the stone walls of the institute. Martin let out an affronted squeak as Sasha sent him a teasing smile, disappearing behind the door to her office. 

Martin put his head in his hands. Why did he have the worst co-workers in the world? 

Cold rain ran uncomfortably down the collar of Martin's jumper, his nose and cheeks stinging red from the unpleasant winter chill. He rubbed his hands that prickled painfully with something akin to pins and needles, desperate for some warmth. It was only four in the afternoon but darkness washed the street, the eerie white glow of the street lamps doing little to pierce the inky blackness. The air smelt damp and earthy, a cloying mix that stuck in his throat and scraped painfully as Martin inhaled. The black tarmac glistened with moisture, reflecting back a distorted image of himself and the smooth wood of the coffee shop behind. Martin cursed himself for always being early. He was idly toying with the idea of going inside, when a small figure emerged out of the hazy rain-filled sky, hunched forward in a desperate and futile attempt to stay dry. 

Martin's numb lips pulled into a smile. 

"Jon. Hi, how, um, how are you?" Martin felt decidedly underdressed compared to Jon's own pressed shirt and smart coat. 

"I'm," Jon brushed the damp hair sticking to his forehead back. "Well, wet." 

Martin laughed, cringing at the water infiltrating his shoes and soaking his socks. 

"Me too. Shall we, um, shall we go inside?" Jon's eyes looked impossibly bright against the darkening street. "To, um, discuss the follow up for your case." 

Jon smiled softly. "After you." 

Martin couldn't help the involuntary sigh that left his lips as they entered the coffee shop. It enveloped him in a warm hug, the soft sound of grinding coffee beans and the smell of fresh pastries so achingly familiar it felt like home. 

Once they'd ordered their drinks, they took a window seat, both content with watching the persistent grey drizzle slide down the window in watery sporradic streaks. Outside, the oranges and greens of the traffic lights blurred together, smeared across the growing blackness. 

Martin watched as Jon cupped his delicate hands around his cup, seeking warmth. 

"So about my case?" Jon shrugged his coat off, twisting his hair up and securing it with a pen. 

Martin was entranced by the action. Only snapping out of his revere when he met Jon's expectant gaze. 

"Yes, um, yes sorry." Martin felt warm all over. "I, er, I looked into it. And there have been other, um, cases of this type. Um, same band, same name, um, same consequences." Martin winced, watching as Jon nodded along, following his every word. He had never had someone give him their full attention. Martin felt like he might combust. 

"They're part of an entity, um, known as the slaughter. Um, music seems to be one of the ways they, um, well, wreak havoc I suppose? Um, I have more information if you want…" Martin trailed off, heart thumping as the blood rushed in his ears. 

Jon reached out and brushed the tips of his fingers against the back of Martin's hand. "Thank you." 

Martin's own hands were shaking slightly. "For, um, for what?" 

Jon smiled, a little sadly. "For believing me. For not dismissing me as some delusional idiot." 

Martin thought his heart might've stopped.   
"Oh, Jon. Of course, I, um, I try to believe everyone. You know? Um, maybe I'm just an idealist." 

Jon laughed lightly, it made him look considerably younger, smoothing out the deep lines etched into his face. 

"It's a good trait to have." Jon gazed out of the window. "The world could definitely use more of it." 

Martin opened his mouth a few times, unsure of what to say. Instead, they settled into silence, drinking their coffees. 

At last Martin spoke. "Can I, um, can I ask you something, Jon?" 

Jon hummed. "Of course." 

Martin breathed out, draining the dregs of his cup. "Do you, um, do you feel, sort of changed by your experience?" Jon's forehead creased adorably. "Like, like maybe you've been touched by something, something...other?" 

Jon paused in thought. "I, ah, I actually feel exactly like that. How'd you know?" 

"Oh, I, um, had my own run in with horrible eldritch monsters. A, um, a woman who was sort of, well, consumed by worms…?" Martin bit his lip, waiting for Jon to laugh, or dismiss him. 

But it didn't happen. Jon simply reached across the table and took Martin's hand, fingers cold where they brushed against his palm. Martin's hand felt like it was burning. 

"I'm sorry. That must have been," Jon frowned, searching the air for words of comfort. "Horrible." 

Martin squirmed a little, struggling to form words, his tongue heavy in his mouth. His throat was dry and prickly. 

"Yeah, um, it was." Martin swallowed, pointedly avoiding Jon's searching eyes. 

"Can I ask you something, Martin?" Jon's thumb was still stroking the smooth skin of Martin's hand. It made it very difficult to think. 

"Of course." Martin said, hoping his voice wasn't strangled where it fought against his throat. 

"Did you, did you actually invite me here to talk about my case?" Jon smiled shyly, pushing back hairs shot through with grey where they escaped and ran down the slides of his face. 

"Um." Martin fiddled with his jumper sleeves. "I mean, i mean, sort of? Like I had information to share, but also. Also I sort of wanted to just...see you?" 

Jon smiled properly at that. A wide smile that bloomed beautifully across his face, engulfing his other features. 

"I wanted to see you as well." Jon admitted, squeezing Martin's hand. "And I would like, well after today, I'd like to, ah, keep seeing you. If that's something you'd want?" 

"Yes, I, um, that's something I would definitely like, too." Martin knew his cheeks were flushed, and his palm was probably grossly sweaty where it met Jon's. But he couldn't bring himself to care. 

Jon smiled again and Martin would burn the world whole if it meant Jon would never stop. 

And when Jon kissed Martin goodnight, huddled under a flimsy bus shelter that whistled in the wind, Martin knew Jon would too.


End file.
